In April, I began hosting an online contemplative practice space called Room to Notice. At noon, on the last Monday of each month, somewhere between six and sixteen people dial into Zoom from cities across the country to participate in a lectio-divina-inspired practice. Here’s how it works: I read a poem—always by a person of color, often a woman—five times. After each reading, I hold a space of silence, share a prompt, and invite the room to pay attention to the inner voice emerging within them. I ask questions like: “What word shimmered for you?” “How do you experience the poet?” “What feelings are surfacing?” “Do you sense an invitation for your life today?” Some choose to keep their reflections private, while others share out in the chat. The entire practice takes about 20 minutes. It’s incredibly simple and always quite beautiful.
I began this experiment at the beginning of the COVID pandemic alongside my friends and colleagues at the Urban Consulate, a national network for civic dialogue and exchange. In Cincinnati, where I live, we host regular conversations with conscious city-builders—those individuals who are doing the very important work of leading change in places where inequities threaten hope and human wholeness. This pursuit has taught me that we can’t talk about the future of cities without talking about equity, we can’t talk about equity without radical truth-telling, and we will never move past talking towards healing if we don’t have the tools required to practice. To be certain, we need to learn and deploy equitable city-building practices—across every domain, system, and structure—for the sake of our shared public life. But just as important to the health of our urban fabric is learning and sustaining spiritual practices—individually and communally—that nourish the soul and transform the heart. Making space to be together and breathe together is one of the many longings I hear among fellow city-shapers. Making space to explore how the spirit, alive in each of us, somehow connects to God’s spirit, alive in the world and on a mission to make all things new, is the Great Mystery I long for my friends to glimpse. Yet this is not (and cannot be) the entire point. My goal is not to convince anyone to adopt what I believe, and I try to be very sensitive to the faith traditions or spiritual inklings of those in the room, recognizing that each of us have our own baggage and lived experiences when it comes to God, church, or the various flavors of organized religion. My core intention is simply to welcome participants into a hospitable space where they can pause long enough to notice the inner-stirrings of the heart—the still, small voice within them. That is my prayer and my purpose.
One of the deepest desires of my life is to walk with people as they navigate their relationship with God. It’s a courageous act to embark on such a journey—challenging to be sure—but it needn’t always be so serious. I’ve watched people fearlessly surrender their heart and be catapulted into a more joyful, expansive way of being. I’ve watched people be released from tired narratives and lies to find new freedom. I’ve watched people flourish in surprising ways as they work out, with God, purpose and direction for their lives. This is the transformation I see—it’s what keeps me motivated and why I lead this monthly practice. I want to see every soul restored, every heart overflowing with joy, and every spirit filled with the very real love of an active, good, and reconciling God. That, too, is my prayer and my purpose.
Experience Room to Notice using this guided recording:
Poem, Thank You, by Ross Gay.